


Tempered

by The Jingo (The_King_in_White)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, F/M, House Baratheon, House Lannister, House Stark, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_King_in_White/pseuds/The%20Jingo
Summary: Myrcella is born first. The Young Wolf comes south for a wedding, and in the shadow of the Red Keep Robb is forced to question the value of northern honour.





	1. Robb I

The crash of the gangplank hitting the dock could barely be heard over the rushing waves of Blackwater Bay and the shouts of sailors swaggering about the harbor, but to Robb Stark that crash was as loud as the crack of thunder. Swallowing dryly, the Stark heir offered his father a wan-faced smile and stepped off _The Purple Mermaid_.

"Ned!" A tall, lithe man shouted as he stepped out of the crowd and raised a hand in greeting. He was clad in soft green silk with prancing golden stags embossed on the breast; his hair as dark as midnight and his eyes a bright sky blue. Given the man's youth and sigil, Robb guessed that their party was being greeted by the King's younger brother.

Father didn't turn to recognize the man until after he'd finished directing the unloading of their luggage, a long moment during which the newcomer only looked indulgent, but once he did a small smile adorned his solemn face. "Renly." He confirmed his son's guess, grey eyes scanning the dock before settling back on Renly. "It's been a long time."

"So it has." Renly agreed, stepping forward to clasp Father's forearm man to man. Then he shifted his attention to Robb, grinning jovially. "And I take it this is the lucky lad?"

The reference to his impending nuptials turned Robb's mood sour again, but he didn't let his discontent shift the polite smile from his face. "An honor, my lord." He extended his hand first, deferential but not simpering. He might be the heir to Winterfell, but Lord Renly was currently a Lord Paramount, and he ought to show some respect.

When Renly accepted his hand and shook, Robb distantly noted that the man's hand was soft and uncalloused. No doubt Renly had been trained to some degree with weapons, as all lords were; but a warrior he was not. Given King Robert's reputation and Renly's own height and breadth of shoulder, that realization came as a bit of a shock to the Stark heir.

A sharp puff of air ruffled the grey linen of Robb's as Grey Wind padded down the gangplank, the direwolf's waist-high bulk bumping into his master as he came to take a peek at the stranger standing so close to the Starks.

"Gods!" Renly breathed, taking half a step back as shock and fear flashed across his face. But just as quickly as it came, the horror was gone and replaced by a bark of laughter. "You grow them large in the North I see."

"So we do." Father agreed wryly, giving Grey Wind's shoulder a gentle shove. "Away with you." He ordered, clicking his tongue when the wolf only looked back at the Warden of the North with mournful amber eyes. "Go lay down."

Grey Wind gave a quick huff but obediently trotted over to mount guard over the rapidly growing pile of their unloaded luggage. The direwolf had only moved a few quick bounds away, but the distance was enough to ease the slight tension from Renly's frame.

Renly gave a slight shake of his head before addressing the Warden of the North again. "Robert wanted to come down and fetch you himself, but there were some matters of state he needed to address. You understand, of course."

"Of course." Father echoed, no looking the least bit offended. "And how is Jon?"

"Still as hearty as a horse."

As Renly descended into conversation with his Father, Robb found his attention wandering away. He knew he should be listening closely to his elders like a good dutiful son, but thoughts of the princess kept popping up in his mind to distract him.

Myrcella Baratheon. It was six moons after the raven from the King arranging the marriage and her name still tasted like poison in the back of his throat. It wasn't that Robb was afraid of pledging himself to a troll, since Cersei Lannister was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and her daughter was her spitting image. Rather, he resented being caged into a marriage so suddenly.

Robb had grown up being told by his parents that while he would have to fulfill his duty, he would only do so with a woman he had met beforehand and found pleasing. Politics were important in a marriage, but so was compatibility, and he'd always wanted to have a marriage full of affection like his parents'. And that was when he deigned to think of marriage at all; since it had always seemed to be something to worry about a few more years down the road.

Yet here Robb was, fourteen namedays and betrothed to the daughter of the Demon of the Trident. Gods old and new have mercy.

"Come on lad, no time for dallying." The sudden address from Lord Renly was enough to snap Robb out of his daze. "His Grace might have been too busy to come down here himself but there's no doubt that he's eager to meet you."

Numbly, Robb felt his lips pull into a bland smile. "Of course, my apologies."

Whistling to Grey Wind, Robb settled a firm hand around the direwolf's leather collar and follower his father and Lord Renly through the crowd. The famous stink of Flea Bottom was getting to both man and beast, and the sooner they were ought of it the better.

"I'll ride in the second one with Grey Wind." Robb offered as soon as they reached a trio of elegantly sculpted carriages. He hadn't missed the way his hound unnerved the King's brother, and while hopefully the man would become accustomed to the wolf's presence in time, Robb wasn't going to push his luck. "It's best not to leave him alone in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people, don't you think?"

His father considered the pair with his heavy grey gaze, long face solemn and weathered. "Very well." He allowed after a moment. "But only if you promise to keep careful control over him. Otherwise I will have to ride with him. As I told you and your siblings before, your direwolves are not mere pets."

It was a fair warning, but it still chafed the heir to Winterfell. Hadn't Robb proven to his father by now that he could be trusted with something so simple? And besides, his father obviously wanted to ride with Lord Renly and hear more of the capital. But his father was still his father, so rather than voicing his irritation Robb only squared his shoulders and met his father's eyes. "I promise."


	2. Ned I

Not even the slight breeze ruffling past Ned Stark's face could mask the stink of Fishmonger's Square.

Their open carriage clattered over the cobblestones, bouncing faintly over the uneven road as they began the journey up The Hook to Aegon's Hill High.

"Is Robert well?" the Warden of the North asked quietly once the noise of the city was loud enough to conceal his words from the coachman. It wasn't like his old friend to miss his arrival, and Robert had never had the patience for the minutiae of ruling. So being absent for reasons of state was unusual to say the least.

Renly huffed a laugh, lounging against the backrest and waving at the smallfolk they passed. "Don't worry your head about it, Ned. My dear brother is just sleeping off last night's wine. You know how he can be. It's nothing unusual."

Indeed it wasn't. There was nothing Robert Baratheon enjoyed so much as a good fight followed by a night of wine and whores. But that didn't mean Ned was going to disrespect the King by voicing his agreement. "What can you say about the Princess?" he probed instead, changing the topic.

"Myrcella?" Renly blinked, sparing a side glance for a northerner. "My niece is a sweet girl." He offered after a moment. "Very pretty and very clever, with none of her mother's poison. Your son is going to be a lucky man. Unlike whichever poor girl ends up marrying Joff. Let me tell you, that boy's mother has spoiled him beyond belief."

"Is that so?"

Humming an agreement, Renly crossed his leg over his knee and turned in his seat to better face Ned. "But that's enough gossip. I wanted your opinion on something." He slipped a hand inside his doublet and pulled out a gold gilt locket. "What do you think?"

Ned cocked an eyebrow in confusion when Renly popped the locket's cover open to reveal a small portrait of a brunette with long curled hair. "A fair girl, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

Rather than appease the Baratheon lord, Ned's short comment only made him look dissatisfied. "Is that the only thing that comes to mind?" he asked cryptically, snapping the locket closed and tucking it away. "I suppose it was a bit of a long shot regardless." Renly muttered more to himself than to Ned.

The grey light in Ned's eyes sharpened as he wordlessly sought Renly's blue gaze. There was no need for curt words, since after a heartbeat the younger man caved under Lord Stark's forbidding mien.

"There's no need to look so suspicious Ned." Renly chuckled, running a hand through his dark hair and settling the other on his knee. "It's just been said that Margaery Tyrell bears some resemblance to the Lady Lyanna, and I thought if the rumors were true that you would recognize it instantly."

"I see." Ned said coolly, resisting the urge to twist his fingers into the dark cotton of his trousers. It was understandable for Renly to want to satisfy his curiosity, but thoughts of his sister still hurt after fourteen years. He still dreamt of blue winter roses, desperate promises, and the bed of blood.

Finally they clattered through the front gates of the Red Keep, moving through an arch of dark sandstone and into a courtyard stuffed with nobles and servants.

"I'd try not to act shocked." Renly forewarned cryptically as the carriage swayed to a stop, and then the Lord of Storm's End was leaping from his seat to seek out a comely young lad with curly honey-shaded hair.

Ned stood at a more sedate pace, glancing back to confirm that the carriages bearing his son and his luggage were safe and close at hand. Call it prejudice or healthy suspicion, but the Lord of Winterfell hadn't felt safe since the moment their ship had begun to sail up the Blackwater. The Capitol might be the seat of the King, but it was the Lannisters who held power in the streets.

And to think Ned was commanded to leave his son here when he returned to Winterfell.

Then a voice he hadn't heard in years boomed "Ned!" and he was just barely able to conceal his surprise by taking a knee. "Your Grace." He returned numbly, barely hearing when Robert exasperatedly demanded that he get off his 'frozen knees'.

By the Gods! The last time Ned had seen his foster brother had been during Greyjoy's Rebellion nine years past. Back then Robert had been clean shaven and heavily muscled with only the odd streak of grey in his coal dark hair.

In the time since the King had gone to seed; he must have gained eight stone in weight. Formerly smooth cheeks were covered by a fierce black and grey peppered beard, and Robert's blue eyes were ringed with dark shadows. Robert was even sweating through his silks like a pig, and Ned felt a great wave of disappointment and pity rear in his chest.

Time was cruel.

"It's good to see you again, Ned." Unlike Robert, Jon Arryn was all skin and bone. The Lord of the Vale's blond hair had gone white many years ago, and during the Rebellion he'd only had half his teeth. In the decade and a half since Jon had lost almost all the muscle on his frame, and his mouth was nearly toothless. The wrinkles in his face were deeper, and the liver spots on his hands larger, but Ned was still glad to see him.

"Jon." Ned greeted back, disregarding propriety to wrap the spindly man up in a brief embrace. With Jon before him and Robert by his side, Ned almost felt like a boy in the Eyrie again. "It's been too long." But the faint tremble of exhaustion in Jon prevented the fantasy from being more than a brief thought. Jon Arryn would never sweep his two wards up into his arms and hug them fiercely as a proud father would. It was doubtful Jon could even do so with his own six year old son at this point.

After another quiet moment, Ned released the older man and turned to beckon Robb closer. "I'll reintroduce you to my son."


	3. Myrcella I

With all the backslapping and carrying on between her father, Lord Stark, and Jon Arryn, the Lion Princess found herself standing off to the side and completely forgotten.

Which was just how she liked it.

With the eyes of no one important on her, Myrcella was able to suck in a steadying breath and stop nervously digging her fingernails into her palms.

Thank the Seven that her betrothed hadn't decided to try and search for her yet. It gave her time to study the auburn-haired boy.

Myrcella certainly didn't want to marry the Stark boy and be sent far away from her mother and Tommen to live in a frozen hell, but when her father had his mind set on something it was almost impossible to change. At this point she was just hoping that the Starks were more like what her father boasted and less like what her mother said.

When her father had first decided that she was going to marry the Stark heir her mother had been furious. For weeks every day was full of horrible tales of the barbarous northmen. There was House Bolton who flayed people alive and wore their skins as cloaks. There were the cannibals of Skagos and the brutish Umber wildings. Even in the southern part of the North it was no better, what with the crannogmen eating bug and other disgusting things.

Robb Stark didn't look like he ate the flesh of men or drank fermented frogspawn, but Myrcella knew that looks weren't everything. Her younger brother Joffrey could act like a saint when he wanted, but she'd seen him bullying Tommen too often to believe his act. Robb Stark might just be the same kind of person.

"Come on, come on, I'll show you to your rooms Ned." The King chuckled throatily, slapping Lord Stark between the shoulders with one beefy hand. Then he dragged away the quietly protesting northern lord, leaving the rest of the royal family standing alone with a suddenly anxious looking Robb Stark and an amused Jon Arryn.

Mother only looked down at him and gave a disdainful sniff before sweeping away, Uncle Jaime hot on her heels. "Come children."

Myrcella hesitated, fighting the urge to wring her hands as Robb Stark's gaze finally settled on her standing between her brothers. The redhead's bright blue eyes were sharp and assessing, not quite hostile but nowhere near friendly. The eyes of the wolf.

Smiling politely, the princess bobbed a short curtsey and fled the courtyard with her brother's hot on her heels. Lord Arryn would look after Robb Stark like the boy was his own grandson, so there was no reason for her to worry about him until suppertime when her father threw a huge welcoming feast for the Starks.

"I say, didn't they look positively brutish?" Joffrey laughed as they stepped into Maegor's Holdfast. "And did you see that great beast they had chained up in the carriages? Do you suppose they're so useless on the hunt that a hound won't do and they need a real wolf?" Under the mockery Myrcella could hear the jealousy, which made her shudder. Gods preserve them if Joff got it into his head that he needed a pet lion or something else so foolish.

"I thought they looked nice." Tommen disagreed, reaching out to take Myrcella's hand like a kitten looking for its mother. "I always thought northmen would look mean, but Lord Stark just looks tired and sad."

Surprisingly, Joffrey didn't take the chance to mock his younger brother, instead only shrugging a shoulder in agreement. "Well I suppose the wolf boy doesn't look half bad. Look on the bright side, sister. At least you won't be whelping pups for some ugly stinking wildling."

Heat flooded Myrcella's cheeks. "Enough, Joffrey! You keep your mouth clean or Father will have Uncle Jaime washing it out with soap again."

Joffrey rolled his eyes and pursed his lips, splitting off from his two siblings to wander down another corridor alone. "I'll see you in a few candlemarks, you crybabies. Make sure you aren't late. We wouldn't want to keep our 'guests of honor' waiting, would we?" With that final taunt he turned a corner and vanished from their sight.

* * *

"Now remember darling, you are a _lioness_. Be brave but cunning. All men are the same, easily controlled once you discover their weakness. Just smile prettily and bear with it for now, and I promise I'll find a way to get this ridiculous arrangement ended. No daughter of mine is going to marry some northern _savage_." The hardness in her mother's voice was at odds with the softness in her hands as Myrcella's mother combed her fingers through her daughter's hair and arranged the blonde curls into an elaborate coiffure.

Myrcella swallowed thickly, not even sure she wanted such a thing to pass. If the betrothal with the Starks was broken, how long would it be before her father found another man he wanted her to marry? And if her mother got to choose Myrcella knew she'd be betrothed to one of her Lannister cousins, but the only boys she knew close in age were Tyrek and Lancel, who were both stupid and arrogant.

At least there was a chance that Robb Stark might be better than Tyrek and Lancel.

With a final twist her mother finished styling her hair, and Myrcella turned to look into the silver backed mirror that her Uncle Renly had gifted her for her nameday many years ago. The polished young woman that looked back was a familiar stranger; who wrapped up in a conservative red silk dress with carefully braided curls and flashing emerald eyes.

She was a miniature of her mother; looking every bit a true Lioness of Lannister. Now if Myrcella could just make herself feel as brave as she looked, she might just be ready to go down to supper and even speak to the stranger she was supposed to marry once she flowered.

Sadly, time waited for no one; not even fretting golden princesses looking for a bit of courage. So with a final throaty swallow Myrcella smiled sadly at her reflection and trailed after her mother into the wolf's den.


	4. Robb II

The heat of the dining hall combined with the tightness of his grey and white doublet was enough to choke Robb. He wanted to rip the damned thing and flee out into the cool summer night, but such a thing wasn't lordly. So instead he shoved down the discomfort and took a sip of the too-sweet Arbor red that was served at the King's table.

Keeping his gaze either on his plate or down towards the minstrel playing a soft tune in the corner of the room, Robb did his best to follow the story of the most recent tourney that Lord Renly was nattering in his ear about. The man seemed friendly enough, and at least when he was listening to an account of Thoros of Myr's flaming sword he didn't have to look over at his betrothed. The avoidance was a little childish, but Robb was still struggling to find his footing in a strange city full of strange people.

Not to mention he had the feeling the Kingslayer would open him from balls to brains if he stared at the Princess too long. God knows the Queen barely paused in her efforts to glare a hole through his head. He might be between his own lord father and the Lord of the Stormlands, but Robb felt distinctly unsafe.

Or maybe Robb was just being overly paranoid, believing too much in the torrid tales of the court that had found their way North over the years.

"As I always say, there's nothing quite like a good tourney." Renly sighed wistfully, running a thumb over the clean-shaven cut of his jaw before lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I don't suppose you'd consider giving it a go, would you? Ser Loras can only be a nameday or two older than yourself and he's a sure hand at the joust. And it isn't as if you would need to be overworried about a poor showing considering your age. No one would be expecting you to be the next Dragonknight in your first tourney. What do you say?"

Robb took a large bite of roasted venison to avoid having to immediately answer. The proper answer; the _Stark_ answer, was to reject tourneys as little more than foolishness. Grown men hammering away at each other with sticks would never approach the visceral feel of real battle. But there was the other part of him that couldn't help but be excited at the thought, the part that craved a little glory and time in the sun. Robb wondered what it would be like to have the crowd screaming his name.

"I think." Robb began after swallowing the thoroughly chewed bit of meat and lowering his own voice. "That my Lord Father is unlikely to give me leave to take part in such things. I wouldn't place your hopes on seeing a Stark knight in any joust so long as we remain in the capitol, my Lord." It wasn't a promise of disobedience by any means, but that didn't stop Robb from sending his father a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.

Luckily, Robb's father was too deep in conversation with the King to pay much attention to an quiet exchange between his heir and the Master of Laws. Relaxing a touch, Robb took another sip of wine and then turned to Lord Renly to meet the man's grin with a polite smile of his own. It wasn't that he intended to go against anything his father asked him to do, but Lord Renly was good company by even the Lord of Winterfell's standards. Surely it wouldn't hurt to exchange a idle suggestions with the man?

Renly tapped the side of his nose once before turning to make a silly face at the young Prince Tommen. "As long as you're that careful with what you say, you might just make it here, Stark." the dark-haired man muttered under his breath.

Frowning, Robb thought to ask for clarification on that little barb, but before he could get anything out King Robert was lurching to his feet with a bellow.

"That's enough of that, wouldn't you say?" the fat King boomed at the minstrel, who froze in fright. "I feel like I'm at a fucking funeral with you plucking away at that thing. Play us something with a little more life to it, eh?" Then he took a huge swallow of dark red wine, the wet trickles running from the edge of the goblet and down into the King's thick beard.

"A bear there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair. The bear! The bear!"

Father and Lord Arryn wore expressions of bemusement as King Robert began to bellow out the lyrics of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_. A cruel smirk lit the Kingslayer's face and the Lion of Lannister tapped a boot in time with the minstrel's lute. The Imp and Lord Renly laughed out loud and joined their voices to the ribald ballad, while Lord Stannis ground his teeth. Even the Princes thought it was great fun, ignoring the furious Queen's shushed demands for them to behave.

"Oh come they said, oh come to the fair! The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair!"

What held Robb's attention wasn't the impromptu performance that the King decided to put on. The Young Wolf noted that servants and the guards adding their voices to the monarch's throaty song, and even Cersei Lannister's legendary fury only garnered a side glance from him. Rather, what held his eyes was the utterly humiliated expression adorning his betrothed's face.

Myrcella stared right at Robb with flushed cheeks, blown wide emerald eyes, and slightly parted lips. It reminded him of Sansa and how his sister would be deeply embarrassed every time Arya acted like a little wildling rather than a proper lady of House Stark.

And for the first time since laying eyes on his wife-to-be, Robb didn't consider her as an inconvenient imposition in his life to be resented. Rather, he felt a touch of pity stirring in his breast.

"Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air! My bear! She sang. My bear so fair! And off they went, from here to there, The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair."


	5. Renly I

The day, Renly decided, could have gone worse. The feast had been a bit of a disaster, as anything formal involving Robert tended to turn out, but Renly was used to it. The best thing to do was simply to stay on Robert's good side and indulge his older brother's _hearty_ spirit. Cersei had never learned to do that, hence why Robert didn't give a whit about her or her golden cubs. And the things a man didn't care about were the easiest to convince him to throw away.

It was unfortunate that Margaery looked nothing like Lyanna Stark, because Robert's obsession was an unerring as the sun. But even if she didn't look like the ghost of Rhaegar's lover, Margaery was still young and beautiful. And that was really all a woman needed to be for Robert to want to bed her.

Marrying Margaery off to Robert would be a little harder than slipping her into his bed, but not impossible. Robert and Cersei hated each other fiercely, and the King would probably see it as getting one over on the lions if he set Cersei aside to marry a younger and more pleasant girl. It was a win for all parties that Renly cared about. Robert got the girl, Renly and Loras got the power, and even Margaery got a bit of glory for herself.

The only ones that would lose out would be the Lannisters, which was just as well. They were too powerful already.

"I heard that the feast was great fun." Loras murmured sarcastically, unbuttoning Renly's doublet with practiced fingers. "A true showing of the class and culture of His Grace's court."

Renly gave a one-sided smirk, reaching out to pinch the skin of Loras' hip. The string was enough to make the knight recoil, and Renly took advantage of the Tyrell's temporary retreat to shrug off his tunic and leave the green silk crumpled in a careless heap on the floor. "Now, now, little thorn, I'll have you know it was the epitome of decadence. The Valyrians themselves would be jealous of our luxurious debauchery."

Then Renly strode over to the window, letting Loras' disbelieving snort go unanswered as he peered out over the night covered capitol. Anyone passing by would see the King's own brother standing half-naked at the sill and would relish the chance to start a few juicy rumors about his sexual prowess. Let them. Seven knew that the people could use the entertainment, and it would make them all think he was just another whore-loving sot.

It was better to be underestimated in the Game of Thrones.

"I also heard that you were getting cozy with the Stark boy."

"Is that jealousy I hear?" Renly laughed, deciding it might be best to shut the drapes after all. Some rumors were just good fun, but others could be damaging. Then he spun in place to pin his lover with a heated stare.

At Loras' disdainful sniff the Young Stag prowled across his bedchamber, the muscles of his abdomen playing beneath clean hairless skin as he stalked towards his prey like a hungry carnivore. "You should know by now that you're the only _boy_ I'm getting cozy with."

Then Renly pounced, meeting his lover with a bruising kiss that tasted of the rosewater. All the Tyrells seemed to drink it like a tonic, and the scent clung to Loras' skin and even to Renly's own hands when he fisted his hands in the younger man's thick brown curls.

"You're a tease." Loras sighed when they pulled apart, lips bruised and with a tent already straining at the knight's breeches. He knew Renly well, and knew that they weren't liable to take their passions any further.

Especially when Loras was expected to depart shortly for more half-hearted attempts at keeping up the façade of his interest in women. The kiss was just a way for the Lord of the Stormlands to express his enduring appetite for Loras' body.

Robert and Renly were more alike than most suspected.

"I suppose some might call me that." Renly demurred, undoing his laces and letting his trousers drop. The man stood unashamedly naked, lightly muscled and cleanly shaven, and looked half a man and half a god. Renly could look just as at home on the Iron Throne as he could at a pleasure house in Lys. "But to get back to your question, yes, I suppose I was getting to know Robb Stark."

Honey brown eyes admired the way the taut muscles of Renly's arse flexed as the man padded across to the wardrobe.

As he began to root through the drawers for his favourite silk night shirt. "I feel like we might have a bit of an opportunity with him. I'm tempted to say there's less of the North in him than his Father, but that wouldn't sound quite right. No… Less of the _Ned_ might be better."

"Less of 'the Ned'?" Loras queried, utterly baffled. "Have you had too much wine, Renly?"

'I'm quite alright, thank you." Renly shot back irritably, pulling a faded blue nightshirt down over his head. "And yes, less of the _Ned_. Before Ned became Lord Stark it wasn't unheard of for the Lord of Winterfell to play the game. Rickard Stark created the alliance that overthrew the Targaryens. The Old Man of the North made the Dragonbane dance like a puppet on his strings. I'd say less of the Arryn, but even Jon knows how to play the game. Ned just can't, for some odd reason."

Skeptically, Loras folded his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow at his lover. "And you think the Young Wolf is going to be the next Cregan Stark, is that it?"

A bubbling laugh burst from Renly's throat. "Heavens, no. I just don't think he's destined to be the next Ned, or worse, _Stannis_. Ned is a good friend to Robert, and I don't see why Robb Stark can't do the same for us."

"For _us_?"

"Of course for us." Renly grinned, storm blue eyes burning bright. "You and I are partners, are we not?"


	6. Myrcella II

"Please close your eyes, Princess." Sarisa murmured lowly, holding up a porcelain jug filled with slightly steaming water.

Wordlessly, Myrcella followed her handmaid's request, and as the downpour washed the last remains of lavender soap from her hair, she wondered if her mother would ask her to attend her for the entire day once again.

The first day after the embarrassing dinner with the Starks, Myrcella had been glad of Mother's orders. There was no one better to teach her how to be a lady than her mother, and the excuse to avoid Robb Stark's judgement of the whole thing had been relieving. But after three weeks spending every hour of the day in her mother's solar, Myrcella was getting more than a little bored.

She was starting to wonder if it might be better to simply put up with Stark's scorn. Myrcella had already learnt from her mother that not everyone in the Seven Kingdoms was going to love her, and if Robb Stark decided he didn't like her – well, that was his problem.

Yes, Myrcella decided, feeling a little fierce. If Robb Stark wanted to be a stupid bully like Lancel, that was on him.

Lurching up in the bath, Myrcella accepted Sarisa's hand out. "I think I should like to go see the Lord Hand today." She declared as her handmaid gently toweled her gold curls dry. "He promised to tell me more of the history of the Vale a moon ago and I haven't had that lesson yet."

Sarisa quirked her mouth into a small smile, the fine wrinkles of middle age making her look kind and stately rather than worn or ugly. "In that case Princess, might I suggest that when your mother summons you this morning that your rooms be empty?" It was a daring thing for a servant to say in a castle ruled by Cersei Lannister, but Sarisa had been Myrcella's handmaid and governess since before the young girl could remember.

Myrcella was more than fond of her handmaid and wasn't about to go telling tales about her. "I shall do just that then. Could you bring me my dress? One from Uncle Stannis?"

The Lord of Dragonstone wasn't the kind of man anyone would think of when buying a girl's dress, but Myrcella found that he did have good taste. Father didn't care to pick out clothes for her, while Mother always insisted on Lannister colours. Uncle Renly brought her gifts sometimes too; usually the latest colors and fashions out of Highgarden. It was Uncle Stannis that gifted her the black and gold of their house.

"Ours is the Fury." Myrcella whispered, jutting her chin stubbornly as she waited for Sarisa to come back. She wasn't just a lion of Casterly Rock. She was a stag of Storm's End. Both sides of her ancestry were brave and powerful, and she would be too.

Robb Stark. Pah.

Accepting the smallclothes Sarisa handed her, Myrcella shimmied into the cool cotton before holding her arms out and letting her handmaiden button her into gleaming black silk. The collar on it was higher than what Mother or Renly usually picked out for her, and the cut of the skirt was long and conservative.

A girl's dress, some might call it, and Myrcella was fine with that. She only had the first bud of her bosom and hips anyway. Better to look a little young than to look like a child playing dressup in her mother's clothes.

As the last set of buttons were done up, Myrcella let out a relieved sigh and turned to smile at Sarisa. "That's good enough, I think. As soon as my hair is brushed I give you leave to take a few candlemarks to go down to the kitchens and see your husband. I'll be with the Hand for the rest of the morning at least."

Waving off the token resistance, Myrcella went poking through her desk in search of a few silver stags. She found a gold dragon and gave that to Sarisa instead, trotting out of the room with her head held high as soon as her sunshine curls were put in order.

* * *

Jon Arryn had a nearly toothless mouth that stunk of old cheese, but his old hands were soft and his eyes were kind. Every time she went up to the Tower of the Hand to see him, he'd smile, ruffle her hair, and give her a sugared candy. Sometimes Myrcella wondered if he still saw her as the six year old girl that used to climb up in his lap and ask for stories of the Falcon Knight.

"Good morrow, Princess." The Hand of the King waved, blue eyes flickering up briefly from the book of accounts as Myrcella slipped into his study. "It's been too long since we've spoken. How have you been?"

Smoothing down the hem of her dress, Myrcella grinned widely, her even white teeth flashing in the sunlight that streamed from the great open windows. "I've been well, Uncle Jon." The Lord of the Eyrie was more akin to a grandfather than an uncle, but Myrcella and Tommen had always called him Uncle at the man's own suggestion. Grandfather would be disrespectful to Tywin Lannister, he'd claimed.

Jon cocked one snowy eyebrow and absently twirled his falcon feather quill. "That's good." He allowed, likely unwilling to speak badly of weeks solely in his queen's company. It saddened Myrcella that her family couldn't seem to simply get along. "And your betrothed?" he questioned slyly, an amused glint in his gaze.

Myrcella floundered. She couldn't just come right out and say that she'd been avoiding Robb Stark, could she? Jon Arryn loved both Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark like his own sons, and probably thought the match had been glad tidings. Jon would disapprove of her treating the Stark heir like a leper.

"Unfortunately, I haven't had the chance to speak properly with him quite yet." The blonde finally forced out, fighting to keep the happy smile on her face. "It's just that I've been so busy learning the dutires of a lady from my mother these past few weeks that I haven't had time for anything else."

"Is that so?" The humorous hum in Uncle Jon's voice only deepened, and he stroked at his beardless chin in mock thought. "Well it's a shame of course, but Robb's a good lad. He'd understand you had your duty to your mother and won't take offence. Luckily, there's a chance for you to rectify that… ah, _misfortunate circumstance_."

Then Jon deliberately shifted his stare over at the open window, silently inviting the Lion Princess to go look for herself.

With a sense of trepidation, Myrcella drifted over to the sill and looked down just in time to see Tommen waddling after Robb Stark with a wooden sword.


	7. Robb III

Prince Tommen's pudgy face was flushed red and soaked in sweat, with gleaming beads of moisture shining in the sunlight as he worked through the drill Robb suggested. The Heir to Winterfell was no Gerold Hightower, but he was able enough to instruct a seven-year-old boy.

"Ten more, my Prince." Robb offered idly when he noticed Tommen's efforts slowing. "Then we can break for a drink."

Tommen gasped desperately for air, but managed to force his trembling little body through the motions before collapsing on his back in the dirt. "Did I do well?" the boy wheezed, desperate for approval.

"Aye." Plucking a beaten pewter mug from where it hung on a nail hammered into the tiltyard fence, Robb dunked it in the barrel of lukewarm water left out for training knights. It might taste a bit off to a pampered Prince, but in the redhead's opinion Tommen would do well with a little hardship.

Robb waited until the Prince lurched to his feet before passing the boy the water, watching as Tommen quaffed it down without hesitation. "You're improving." He praised vaguely, seeing similarities between the King's younger son and his own brother Bran. Tommen was softer and more bookish, but just like Bran he loved tales of valiant knights and wanted to become one.

Or at least Tommen did when he wasn't clinging to Cersei Lannister's skirts.

"It would be best to rest for a quarter of a candlemark or so before starting the drills again, wouldn't you say, my Prince?"

"Yes, Lord Stark."

"Just Robb is fine."

"Yes, Robb. You can just call me Tommen!"

It had been an odd set of circumstances that led to Robb supervising the little prince as the boy sweated through his silks and rolled in the dirt.

Three days past the King had decided to join Robb and his Father for supper, moaning on about how he'd miss Father when the man returned to the North in another week. The moaning had turned to stories of their shared boyhood in the Vale, which turned into the King complaining about how foppish his sons were.

Eventually King Robert, in a drunk fit of fancy, had commanded Robb to take his sons under his wing and teach the boys how to act like good Northern lads. Robb was slightly baffled about what that would actually involve, and had settled on working the Princes on the tiltyard and hoping that would satisfy the King.

Joffrey had refused when Robb invited him to the tiltyard, sniffing disdainfully and stalking off, but Tommen had been practically wetting himself with glee. Robb wasn't sure if it was the chance to learn knightly skills or if it was just the chance to spend time with a mentor, but in the end Tommen had attached himself to the Stark heir like a burr and followed him around from dawn to dusk.

"Alright, Tommen." Robb began dubiously, sparing a quick glance around the tiltyard to make sure no Lannister stooges were going to tear a strip off of him for his so-called disrespect. There were a few guards in Baratheon livery watching the two young noblemen, but no Lannisters, and Robb let himself relax a bit. "Next we'll run a few laps. Just try to keep it at a steady pace. We want endurance, not speed. Sometimes a knight has to run many miles to join a battle on time."

It was a bit amusing to see the Prince of the Iron Throne lap up his suggestions like ambrosia, Tommen immediately launching his plump frame into a clumsy jog around the tiltyard. Robb let the boy run a few circuits before joining in, trying to match the much shorter boy's pace without looking like a mummer taking tip-toe steps.

"We'll run about the yard twenty times before stopping."

The panting Prince just nodded, unable to force out any words with the way he was huffing and puffing. The level of exertion Robb was putting the boy through was completely unfamiliar to Tommen, and it showed in everything from the sweat soaking through his too-fine-for-the-yard green silks to the desperate wheezes for air the Prince took.

"You're almost done." Robb encouraged when he saw Tommen beginning to flag at the halfway mark, silently deciding to pretend they'd run eighteen laps. A boy as young as Tommen was likely to be so distracted by the actual running he'd lost count, and Robb would rather avoid the little lion working himself into a faint. "Two more."

Tomman collapsed in the dirt once more as soon as they finished those laps, dirtying his fine doublet even more and making Robb wince. Maybe it was just the Northern frugality in the Stark heir, but he inwardly recoiled at the thought of so easily ruining such expensive clothes.

Taking inspiration from the warmer days back at Winterfell, Robb pulled his own cotton tunic over his head and hung it on the tiltyard fence. "It gets too warm here when you work in the tiltyard." He explained when Tommen gave him a confused glance. "Once you start to sweat you're better off going shirtless."

Nodding fervently at his new idol's suggestion, Tommen wriggled about in an effort to yank off his doublet, finally succeeding with the popping of a button that made Robb wince. A proud expression crossed the boy's pudgy face as he held out the green silk.

Robb smothered a chuckled at the silliness of it all, taking the proffered doublet with grave solemnity and hanging it on the fence next to his own blue tunic. "The breeze feels nice, doesn't it?" he offered a hand to the Prince to help the boy up.

"It does." Tommen agreed enthusiastically, inspecting Robb's bare torso with such an amazed look that it started to make the Stark heir uncomfortable. "Where's your hair Robb?"

"My _what_?" Robb snorted in disbelief.

"Your hair. Mother always said that men from the North have lots of hair on their bellies. Even more than Father does!"

The thought of _Cersei Lannister_ lecturing her little cub about how much hair men from the North grew on their chests was enough to make Robb bark a short laugh. "Oh we do." He decided to indulge the boy a bit. "But it only comes in once we reach twenty namedays. Then it all sprouts in at once."

"Truly?"

"Good Gods!" A third voice broke in sounding completely mortified, and Robb spun in place to find his betrothed standing at the end of the tiltyard with her hand shading her eyes.

"Hullo Cella!" Tommen yelled, waving with glee. "Robb's teaching me how to be a knight!"

Seeming to struggle inwardly with indecision, Myrcella squeaked out. "I can _see_ that." And then she squared her shoulders and began to move towards the pair of shirtless boys.


	8. Myrcella III

The heat in her face was enough to make Myrcella nearly faint.

When she'd first caught sight of her betrothed and her brother wandering across the grounds of the Tower of the Hand with wooden swords, she'd been baffled. She hadn't talked to Tommen in a few days, but that last time she had seen him her brother claimed to have never even spoken to Robb Stark before.

Yet now they were apparently roaming the tiltyard together shirtless and working up a sweat.

It wasn't the first time Myrcella had seen the naked chest of a sweating man. Her own father had used to visit the yard when she was younger, and every other day she could find Uncle Jaime scowling as he beat down Ser Blount and Ser Greenfield. There had even been those days when she was younger where she'd had to bath Tommen herself when her little brother refused the help of his servants, so Myrcella had some experience with seeing the bare torso of a man.

But none of those men had been Robb Stark, who was supposed to one day be her husband.

Before the moment Myrcella had laid eyes on Robb's half-naked flesh, she hadn't really considered him a person before. Robb Stark had only ever been an _obstacle_. A handsome obstacle, in the way that she would admire the savage beauty of the sea, but still an obstacle. He had been a thing to overcome rather than a person.

 _It is a sin to be wanton_ , the princess reminded herself silently as she shaded her eyes. She did it partly to keep the midday sun out of her eyes, but mostly to hide most of the Stark heir from her sight. The only thing she could see past her lowered hand was Tommen's beaming face and Robb's pale muscled stomach.

"Have you been hard at work this morn, Tommen?" Myrcella asked, trying to force back the shock of realizing that Robb Stark could give her the same fluttering feel in her tummy that Ser Loras or Ser Arys did.

Tommen puffed up proudly at the question. "I have. Robb told me yesterday if I keep working hard one day I might be as good a knight as Uncle Jaime."

"He's right." She agreed easily. In truth Myrcella doubted that Tommen would ever be as famous as Uncle Jaime, who everyone called the Lion of Lannister to his face and Kingslayer behind his back, but it was good for her little brother to have a dream. "So long as you work hard and don't give up, you'll be a splendid knight one day."

"Maybe they'll call me Ser Tommen the Golden Stag." The young prince sighed dreamily.

No longer able to ignore her Northern betrothed and still follow the rules of courtesy, Myrcella swallowed thickly and lowered her hand. "And how do you do this fine morn, my lord?" she asked with her heart thumping madly in her ears. It was the first time she had actually _spoken_ to Robb Stark.

"I am well, my princess." Robb intoned softly, reaching out to take Myrcella's soft hand and press a brief kiss to the back of it. The whole time his wolf's gaze never shifted from her emerald eyes, scorching like a bright blue flame. "And you?"

Myrcella wondered if it was possible for someone to ignite her with the heat of their stare alone. Maybe the flame would light beneath her ribs, blazing slowly at first but gaining speed until she was totally devoured and there was nothing left but bone and ash. The burn she felt in her skin from her betrothed's gaze was enough to throw her off balance, and after a few idle courtesies she could barely remember giving she fled the yard.

Gods be good. There was something _odd_ about Robb Stark. He wasn't the most commanding person she had ever met; that was her grandfather Lord Tywin. Robb Stark wasn't the most intimidating person Myrcella had met either; Gregor Clegane had that honor. But there was a sense of earthy wildness in his blue eyes, which she'd only seen faintly once before in Lord Stark's gaze.

Briefly, Myrcella wondered if Robb Stark had the blood of a wolf in his veins in addition to an enormous direwolf as a pet.

"And where are you off too in a hurry, little lioness?"

There was a flash of white steel plate in the candlelight as her Uncle Jaime swept her up in his arms, briefly bringing Myrcella close to his broad chest before settling her on a worn stone windowsill.

Shocked out of her blind dash away from the tiltyard, Myrcella realized that she must have wandered into the familiar confines of Maegor's Holdfast. In fact, if she followed the next three left turns she'd end up in her mother's solar.

"I'm just wandering, Uncle Jaime." Myrcella lied, shifting her gaze off to stare at a faded hunting tapestry. In hindsight her thoughts and sudden panic were completely silly, and she'd probably seem touched in the head if she started going on about wolf blood and Robb Stark's eyes.

Jaime snorted disbelievingly, looking down at her with a sharp glare. "I don't think so, Cella. Your ears always turn pink when you lie. What's happening? Is someone bothering you?"

"No!" She denied hotly. "Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to be by myself for a little bit."

The expression that crossed Uncle Jaime's face was completely frustrated, but after a tense moment he stepped back and bowed politely as Myrcella knew he would. Her uncle cared about her, but he never had more than a moment to spare for her, so if she refused to talk to him Myrcella knew that Uncle Jaime wouldn't be able to push for an answer the way Mother or Father would.

"My Princess." Jaime murmured, visibly clenching his jaw after sending a cautious glance down the corridor. "I must attend my duties, but you know you can come to me if anything at all is wrong."

"I know."

The muscle in Uncle Jaime's jaw tightened, and he looked completely unsatisfied, but in the end he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Myrcella alone to mull over her thoughts.


	9. Jaime I

"So do you have something to say or are you just trying to encourage the shit to move through your bowels?"

After giving his younger brother an irritated sneer, Jaime turned on his booted heel and kept pacing back and forth in front of the mantle. He felt like a caged lion, peering out between the bars of his prison and hungering for a taste of freedom. "I hate this city."

"You and everyone else in it." Tyrion pointed out baldly, gulping back another mouthful of strongwine.

If their mother had still been alive she'd have been horrified at her son drowning himself in his cups just after noon, but Joanna Lannister was long buried. They only had their father, who would be glad to pay for all the wine Tyrion could choke down in the hopes the Imp would die of alcohol poisoning.

Silence hung between the two brothers, one watching with mismatched eyes as the other stomped out his frustrations into the sandstone floor. "Care for a taste?" Tyrion offered rhetorically, topping his own goblet back up so that Jaime could snatch it from his hands and take a long swallow.

Jaime wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, dropping the empty silver goblet back on the table. "I don't suppose you've gotten one too?" the Kingslayer asked. Both of them knew very well that 'one' meant yet another letter from their father urging Jaime to leave the Kingsguard and take up his supposed destiny as the heir to Casterly Rock.

Tyrion just grimaced, silently affirming. Where Jaime got direct demands to return, Tyrion received letters urging him to be 'useful for once in his miserable life' and use his influence over his older brother to try and cajole Jaime. He was supposed to be the honey to their father's vinegar, so to speak.

Waking up to a letter stamped with the Lion seal had ensured Jaime would have a shite day, and encountering Cersei's daughter looking spooked in the halls only made it worse. When Tommen or Myrcella had troubles, it exasperated Jaime because he wasn't allowed to offer real help. Anything more than a quick word here or there had Cersei breathing down his neck.

Jaime loved his sister, but she was overly paranoid. If he attempted to be more than a distant uncle to the children, she was up in arms wailing about how he was being reckless. As if someone would instantly point fingers at them simply because he tried to show affection to her children. It was nothing more than any _normal_ uncle would have given them.

With enough wine in his belly Jaime was able to convince himself he didn't care about them, telling himself they were nothing more or less than a squirt of seed in Cersei's cunt. But Jaime wasn't Tyrion, and it was too early in the day for him to be anything but coldly sober.

The gods had truly cursed him, giving Jaime paltry moments with his sister over the years while demanding much in return. How many times had he had to stand in the corner silently while that drunken oaf pawed at Cersei? Three golden cubs his sister had mothered, none of whom Jaime was allowed to truly know.

"So," Tyrion began conversationally, propping his stunted legs up on the table and leaning back in his chair. "I see Tommen decided he's going to adopt that Stark boy as his newest older brother. How long would you give him before he starts howling at the moon?"

Jaime's lip curled in disgust. It wasn't enough for Robert to constantly spend his days whinging on about the wolf girl, now the fat sot had decided he needed to have the wolves running around the capitol? He still remembered that damn Ned Stark bursting into the throne room after he'd killed Aerys, judging him with those self-righteous grey eyes. No doubt the man's son was just the same.

"Let's just hope that day never comes." Jaime muttered, running his hand over his face. "Bad enough we've got one wolf pup around for the near future. A second one and I just might go mad. I can already _hear_ them bleating on about honor _this_ , duty _that_. Now all we need is for someone to get it in their head we need more _Stannis_ about."

Tyrion guffawed. "Can you just imagine that, though? You walk into the Small Council meeting with Robert and you have three little Stannises all lined up thundering on about how we must close all the brothels and restore morality to this den of vice. Gods, if you have five of them you might even succeed."

"Robert would take his warhammer to them before they left the council chambers. There would be the second good deed he's accomplished in his lifetime." Jaime shuddered.

"I wouldn't think he could still lift the damn thing."

"Oh he can. His heart seems fit to burst after a few swings, but he can."

"I'm shocked he can get _anything_ up." Shaking his head with a smirk on his face, Tyrion took another sip of deep crimson strongwine. Their irreverent conversation about the monarch would be enough to get them thrown in the stocks if they were anyone but the sons of Tywin Lannister. "Speaking of King Sot, don't you have guard duty to get to? We don't want to give old Barristan yet another reason to try and get you stripped of your cloak."

"He's welcome to try, but no. I don't start my watch until supper. Until then I have naught to do but idle away with you." Jaime finally threw himself into the armchair across from Tyrion, having worked out his earlier frustration.

"You could try the tiltyard?" Tyrion suggested, shifting his gaze to stare longingly at the bookshelf before returning his focus to Jaime. "I don't mind your company but I'm sure there are more exciting things you could be doing besides conversing with a bookish little Imp. Tis not like we can go to the whorehouses together, for obvious reasons, and you don't want to drink the hours away either."

Jaime narrowed his eyes into a fierce glare. "There's nothing wrong with your company, Tyrion, regardless of what anyone else wants to say. If anyone tells you differently, you let me know and I'll be more than glad to have a _talk_ with them. Besides," he paused, mellowing slightly. "There's not much going on in the tiltyard today beyond Tommen and the Stark boy playing with sticks."

"You could always go a round or three with them." Tyrion pointed out, winking when Jaime only looked at him like he was crazed. "They would certainly benefit from crossing swords with the _great_ Lion of Lannister, and you never know, that Stark boy might be less like his father than you assume."

Jaime simply scoffed.


	10. Ned II

"Quiet now boy, or you'll spook the game." Robert hissed in a sharp whisper at Lancel, blue eyes flashing with barely contained fury. Clenched in one beefy hand the King held the reins of his sorrel palfrey, with the other fisted around the grip of his red oak recurve bow.

The Lannister squire swallowed nervously, lowering his gaze and keeping silent. Ned would have felt bad for the boy if he hadn't seen the Westerlander strutting about the Keep making jests about 'stupid, savage Northmen' just that morning.

Nudging his own mare with his knees, Ned followed Robert deeper into the woods and tried not to think too deeply on having to leave his son in the viper pit of King's Landing for an unknown length of time. After the deaths of most of his family before and during the Rebellion, Ned had been extremely reluctant to foster any of his children away from Winterfell. But when the King offered his only daughter's hand to his heir and suggested fostering said heir, refusal was not truly an option.

Leaves rustled as their hunting party moved through the ferns, the King followed by Ned and Robb, who were in turn trailed by a dozen other minor lordlings, six squires, Ser Barristan and Grey Wind. Ned couldn't help but wonder how Robert expected to catch any game with the vultures of the court clinging to his coattails.

When they had been boys on the hunt Robert never really cared if they actually caught any game or not, finding enough simple enjoyment in the clean air and company. The man Robert had become after a dozen years on the Iron Throne however was only sated if there was blood at the end of the hunt.

Catching Robb's eye when his son ambled up next to him, Ned smiled grimly at the naked skepticism there. Indeed, hunts in the South were nothing like the search for game in the North. Back in Winterfell every slain elk was used in its entire, from the coat to the bones, to prepare for winter and provide for the people. In the South hunting was mere sport, and like as not anything they caught would be served on the King's table with the remnants thrown into the Blackwater.

It was a very different world they'd been called into that day moons ago when a letter with the King's seal had come to Winterfell. A world that Ned would be leaving in the next few days but one where Robb would remain, likely for years. He hoped that the South wouldn't corrupt his son and make him unrecognizable when Robb finally came home.

"Steady." Robert muttered, his voice still carrying despite the King's effort to muffle it. The entire hunting party came to a quiet stop marked by the whickering of Ned's own gelding. "There's a boar just over the next ridge. Lancel will flush the big bastard this way. All of you are to stay out of my way, this is my kill." Then ignoring Ser Barristan's protest the King clambered down to crouch behind a thick cluster of ferns.

Ned fought the urge to groan. It was just like Robert to throw his life in danger without regard for the consequences. What would become of the Seven Kingdoms if the man went and got himself gored to death? The Iron Throne would be given to a spoilt little boy while the Seven Kingdoms passed into the hands of Tywin Lannister. Discreetly, the Lord of Winterfell reached for his bow, nocking an arrow. If it looked like the boar would overcome the King, he'd shoot.

Robert would be upset for a few candlemarks that Ned had wounded his kill, but he'd live, and in the end there would be no lasting punishment from his foster brother.

Robb sighed, blue eyes narrowing. "It's coming." The redhead gripped the reins of his steed tighter, not reaching for his bow the way another lord might. Instead he merely clicked his tongue, and then Grey Wind moved up ahead through the bushes.

The direwolf had vanished from sight by the time the squeals of the boar made their way to Ned's ears. Branches snapped and leaves rustled ahead and to the right, the beast's passage carrying it parallel to the hunting party. A single heartbeat pulsed in Ned's ears, and then Robert burst forth with a savage roar.

Man and boar met with an shrill shriek, a grey and white blur sharpening into a heavyset pig that dodged Robert's attempt to gore it. Beady black eyes glared at the King, glittering malevolently over a mouth crowned with yellow tusks. Again Robert moved to stab at the boar, and again it stepped back.

With his attempt at an ambush failed, Robert was left overexposed and vulnerable as the boar moved from shock to aggression. White stripes rippled along its grey hide as the boar turned to fully face the King, baying out a bloody promise. Then it moved to charge.

Cursing under his breath, Ned brought up his bow and drew back on the bowstring.

"Stop." His son uttered with a steely tone. And then Grey Wind burst from the underbrush, silently leaping through the air to land on the boar's back and sink his great fangs into its meaty shoulder.

The boar squealed in agony, turning to meet this new foe, only for Grey Wind to break off and slip back into the cover of the trees. So bewildered by the sudden attack, the boar forgot about the King until Robert lunged forward and slammed the point of his boar spear between its ribs. Caught on the prongs, the beast could do little but writhe in agony in an effort to strike back at the man.

Grey Wind moved back out of the foliage, licking his chops and watching with a savage amber gaze as the boar's struggles grew weaker and weaker until at last it died.

Silence hung over the party like a pall, Ned half expecting Robert to explode in fury at the assistance of the direwolf. They all watched as Robert pulled back on his spear with a grunt, stabbing the butt into the earthy loam as he turned to stare at Robb with an inscrutable light in his stormy gaze.

Then Robert began to laugh uproariously. "Now that's what I call a hound! Did you _see_ that? Ned, I've got to get me one of those." With the tension broken by the King's amusement, the small collection of Crownland nobles began to titter.

"Now come on, you arse-lickers." Robert shifted his stare to focus on a middle-aged lord with greying brown hair. "Pick that big bastard up. We'll be feasting tonight!"


	11. Robb IV

The belt of King Robert's drunken laughter cracked through the smoky hall, and Robb pressed his palms against his eyes in an effort to stop the room from spinning around him.

"Stark!"

Robb's entire body felt warm and lethargic from the wine, and based on the way Grey Wind was whining piteously at his feet, his wolf felt the same way. If he ever found out who thought it would be a great prank to get a direwolf drunk, he'd string them up by their shorthairs.

"Stark!"

At least his father had retired a few candlemarks past and wouldn't know just how drunk he'd truly gotten. The stoic Lord of the North didn't scold his children for drinking too much ale back home, but there was a difference between Winterfell and King's Landing. Robb didn't want to have to suffer through a lecture on propriety in the morn right before his father left for Winterfell. If they had to part, at least they'd part on good terms.

"Stark! Get your arse up here!"

"Piss off!" Robb shouted back, only to look up when the hall went abruptly quiet. Pale and shocked faces stared back, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach Robb turned his gaze to look eyes with the King.

Thick dark brows were arched high, crowning a disbelieving expression. Very slowly, the flabby beard covered skin of Robert's face and neck mottled red. "Is that how you speak to your King?" he asked very gravely.

Then before Robb could even babble out an apology the King started hammering his fist on the polished dining table. "Hahahahaha!" The tension swiftly bled out of the room like the rush of a river downstream, and soon enough other nervous giggles were echoing Robert's own mirth. "You've got stones, Stark! That's the funniest thing that's happened around here in a long time. Now, get up here! All these arselickers are making me sick."

Lurching to his feet, Robb instinctively reached for his half-empty goblet of Arbor red before thinking better of it. "Come on boy." He muttered to Grey Wind, wincing when the giant wolf heaved up a little puddle of sick before staggering after him.

Robb could feel the eyes burning into him as he made it to the head of the table and threw himself into the empty seat at King Robert's right hand. The sudden weight against his thigh told him that Grey Wind had plopped down right next to him and leaned in.

"Good lad." Robert growled approvingly before bellowing at one of the servants to bring them more wine.

In short order Robb found a brand new gold and ruby encrusted goblet shoved into his hands, filled to the brim with Dornish sour. The room was spinning too much for him to want to drink more of his own accord, but he'd probably tempted fate a bit too much already, so when King Robert toasted the vintage Robb took a hearty gulp.

Leering at the barely concealed teats one of the wenches dancing about the hall sported, Robert waved his offhand at the wineskin that had been left in front of the pair. "They don't make them like that in the North, boy."

"No they don't, Your Grace." Robb agreed staidly, one hand dropping to scratch behind Grey Wind's ear.

"Bah! Don't start that now, Stark." Abandoning his perusal of a particularly buxom blonde, Robert favoured his best friend's son with one gimlet eye. "I have enough lickspittles crawling around here looking to kiss my stones for a bit of favour, don't you join them. Unfreeze that frozen face of yours and call me Uncle Rob, or Robert, or even Baratheon for the fuck's sake. Now drink up, your King commands it."

Robb found demanding informality and abusing the royal prerogative in the same breath to be hypocritical, but he kept such thoughts to himself and took a small sip of his wine. "Very well… Robert." He agreed cautiously, relaxing when the King grunted in approval.

"Ned's leaving tomorrow." The melancholy note was heavy in the King's voice, and when he went to drink he ended up downing the entire goblet and thumping for another. Then he burped, the foul stench make Robb want to wrinkle his nose, before turning to consider the Northern heir. "There's to be a tourney at Highgarden for the Tyrell girls fifteenth nameday in a few moons, you plan to join the lists?"

"Aye." Robb agreed recklessly, emboldened by the drink and the knowledge that once his father left the only one that might gainsay him for doing so was the King and Queen themselves, and perhaps Jon Arryn as the Hand. His father would think it Southron foolishness but at least once in his life Robb wanted to be garbed in glory with the smallfolk screaming his name. "I haven't decided whether to ride in the jousts or fight in the melee."

Clapping a hand to Robb's shoulder with bruising force, Robert grinned. "Good man, Stark. I have half a mind to join myself. A word of advice lad, do one or the other, or you'll be so sore and bruised by the end of the tourney you won't even have the energy to sit on the privy by yourself. Believe me, I've been there."

Snorting into his drink at the thought, Robb shook his head. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good, good. More wine you spineless shites!" Robert suddenly roared, shaking the empty wineskin in emphasis. "You have one benighted job! Now lad." The King dropped his voice again. "You'll need to practice hard. You don't have to win, but don't get knocked on your arse in the first tilt. And find your way down to the Street of Steel and get some decent armor made up for yourself. Don't worry about the coin, just think of it as making up for fourteen days of missed namedays."

Robb fumbled his goblet with numbed fingers, spilling wine down his front. "That's generous of you, Uncle Rob." The familial title was odd on his tongue, but the twinkling in the King's eyes was practically giddy once Robb named the man as such.

"You think _that's_ generous? I'll do you one better, lad, and make sure Barristan's got a few hours here and there to give you some pointers. I'll even lend you the Kingslayer if you think you can stomach the ponce."


	12. Ned III

"Are you sure I can't tempt you with a Small Council position? Hell, I could even tell Jon to take some time off and name you Hand. Just think of it Ned. You the Hand, Me the King, and Jon could be Master of Laws or Ships or whatever he likes."

"I'm sorry, Your Grace." Ned sighed, keeping one eye on the sailors loading his luggage onto _The Winter Rose_. "But I belong in the North; Winterfell is my home."

Robert snorted, glaring at the distant crowd of smallfolk that had gathered to gape at the King sending off the Warden of the North. "And the Rock was Tywin Lannister's home, but that didn't stop him from running the Seven Kingdoms as Mad Aerys' Hand for years."

"Tywin Lannister is not the kind of man I would like to emulate." Ned pointed out tightly.

In truth it wouldn't be strange in the least for a Lord to trust his estate to the running of his steward, keeping in touch through ravens to deal with any complex troubles. It wouldn't even be unheard of for a Lord and his heir to both stay in King's Landing at the pleasure of the monarch. But while Ned had been glad to see his foster father and old friend, he missed his home and his family more.

It had been too long since he'd seen Cat and the children. And he hadn't forgotten his promise to Jon to tell the boy about his mother. That promise was likely all that was keeping Jon from running off to freeze with rapers and thieves on the Wall. A promise that would change everything once it was fulfilled.

"Fair enough." Robert agreed grudgingly, looking out over the sapphire waters of Blackwater Bay and inhaling the sea wind. "But at least don't be a stranger. I better not have to wait another ten fucking years to see your frozen face again."

Beneath Robert's bluster was a queerly boyish note, revealing a vulnerability that a King didn't often have the luxury to display. It stung Ned's heart and made him remember the days so long ago when they'd been boys together in the Eyrie. "It won't. Cat and I will come for the wedding."

The King puffed up at that promise, the gloomy air vanishing like the morning dew. "That won't be more than a year or so! You'll barely have made it back North to freeze your stones off and you'll be riding back down South. Maybe you'll bring your eldest girl down to find a match, eh?"

"Perhaps." Ned allowed, nodding sharply when the last of his belongings where stowed belowdeck. "I'll be seeing you."

After accepting a too-tight hand clasp from Robert, Ned waited until the King retreated before finally turning to his son. The pressure in Ned's throat was thick, and he tried not to think on the stinging in the corner of his vision as he embraced Robb. "Don't forget who you are."

"I won't." Robb promised, his voice cracking. Tully blue eyes glistened wetly as the separated, and Ned was needled by the knowledge of just how young his son really was. At best Robb was little more than an innocent boy, green and untried like the rest of his children. The sons and daughters of summer all, they were.

But now Robb had to become a grown man who couldn't rely on his lordly father's protection. Robert and Jon would do their best to protect his boy, but they could only do so much. They couldn't safeguard Robb against heartache and betrayal, which were common coin in King's Landing. "Jory has command of the guards here. I'll leave a full score with you now, and send coin to hire more once I reach Winterfell."

Surprise filled Robb's face. When they'd set sail from White Harbor they'd brought thirty of Winterfell's normal guard, clad in bright silver mail and wolf furs. Ned would be leaving two thirds of them in the South with his heir. If their ship were assaulted by reavers on the voyage North it might go hard for the Stark lord. And even after the voyage was done, maintaining a permanent guard in the South would be a bit of a drain on Winterfell's coffers. "Father, there's no need…"

"You are my son." Ned stated fiercely, setting his forehead against Robb's own. "My _son_." Even as a boy he'd never been given to babbling, and as he had grown older Ned found it harder and harder to put his feelings into words. But if it kept his boy safe he'd willingly spend the rest of his life in chains in some Essosi pit. "And remember…"

"Remember?"

Lowering his voice, Ned scanned the people puttering about the docks with a hostile grey gaze. "Jon and Robert will do their best to keep you safe in this _shithole_ , but if you feel endangered you ride hard and fast for Riverrun. _Promise me_."

Shocked by his father's sudden descent into vulgarity, Robb could only stutter out a quiet oath to do as his father demanded.

Not entirely satisfied but knowing it was the best he was going to get, Ned stepped back and knelt to pet Grey Wind. The direwolf was already tall enough to reach his stomach when he stood, and would grow taller still. "I have to hit the trail, boy. You'll looked after him, won't you?" he whispered, rubbing vigorously along the wolf's flank.

Grey Wind whined plaintively, thumping his bushy tail into the planks of the dock and butting his head against Ned's own. The direwolf's distress was a mirror of his owner's, and it made Ned's chest tight.

"Goodbye, son."

"Safe travels, Father."

Time passed in a blur then, Ned barely aware of his own feet moving as he walked up the gangplank and found a place to stand in the stern of the boat. Men shouted around him and the boat shuddered as it floated down the current and out to sea.

All Ned had eyes for was the figure of his son, retreating unendingly into the distance until Robb could no longer be distinguished from the pier he stood on. And then he watched the pier, imagining red hair and blue eyes until it too blurred into the vague shape of King's Landing. Eventually the capitol itself melted away until nothing was left behind them but blue ocean and the cry of the seagulls.


	13. The Old Falcon I

When the Stark lad's eyes lit up at the sight of the Street of Steel, Jon knew he'd made the right choice to cheer the boy up after his father's departure. "There's no smith quite like Tobho Mott in all the Seven Kingdoms." Jon declared as they began their trek up Visenya's Hill. "No doubt you've heard from your father how a smith needs to give up the strength in his steel if he wants it to look pretty. That's usually the case, I admit, but Mott's work is strong and beautiful." And expensive went unsaid.

Robb shook his head when a beefy blond smith hammered at a red hot length of molten iron. "His Grace said something similar. Your own sword was crafted by him?"

"Aye." Jon confirmed, settling a hand over Robb's shoulder and steering the boy further up the street. He didn't think Robb was likely to get lost, especially when they were followed by a gaggle of guards clad in Stark and Arryn livery. But that didn't mean a scoundrel wouldn't try to cut the boy's purse given the chance. "It was a gift from my lady wife, but I wouldn't be surprised if Robert's coin was behind it as well."

Frowning slightly, Robb touched a hand to the coin laden pouch tied to his belt. "His Grace is generous." He commented lightly, but there was a low undercurrent of disapproval Jon picked up on. No doubt Ned had raised the boy to be frugal, and while every young man at some point wanted shiny gem-encrusted armor, Robb most likely was struggling to reconcile the expense with his father's teachings.

"That he is." Jon agreed as they stopped at the last shop on the street. "But he is the King. It's not for us to refuse his gifts if he wants to give them." That was not strictly true, as Jon himself couldn't even begin to count how many of Robert's well-meant presents he'd refused, but young Robb was still half a boy. There was nothing wrong with spoiling the lad a bit. "Now come on, let's take a peek inside."

With a final pat on Robb's shoulder, Jon stepped forward and through the open doors of Mott's shop. The ebony and weirwood carved hunting scene crowning the doors hardly fazed Jon, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Ned's son boggle at the craftsmanship, and gave a small grin.

"Mott!" Jon's voice cracked as he tried to shout over the sound of hammer and steel echoing through the shop. "Mott! Are you in?"

Half a dozen freshly wrought suits of mail glittered on armor stands, tinted in the colours of autumn, with a seventh set half completed. Jon made to call again, but the sound of the forge fell abruptly silently, and then Gendry stepped out from the back with a orange shaded helm tucked under one arm.

"M'Lord Hand." Robert's bastard greeted, gently setting the helm with the incomplete set of orangish mail before dusting his hands on his oil-stained apron. "Master Mott's down the street speaking with Old Garren 'bout some shipment out of Dorne. Should be back soon though."

Laying eyes on Robert's bastard was like seeing his foster son young again, and Jon always did his best to care for them when he discovered them. A little coin here and there went far for the baseborn.

Waving off the surly boy's apology, Jon smiled. "It's no trouble, Gendry. We just wished to place an order for some of Master Mott's work."

Gendry just nodded at that, the muscle in his jaw working in the exact same way Robert's did when the King was deep in thought. It was almost strange how much Robert's bastards resembled him where his trueborn children were all Cersei.

"You want to wait for Mott to get back, or do you want to tell me what you were lookin' to buy? M'Lord Hand." Gendry hastily tacked on the respectful address, looking a touch bashful.

"We're not purchasing ourselves, but rather bringing a commission from His Grace the King." Jon began carefully, watching Gendry's face like a hawk. There was no reaction from the boy at the reference to his father. Did Gendry just not care, or did he not even know who his father was? "He wants a full suit of armor and new arms crafted for his future good-son, to be ready for the Tourney at Highgarden in three moons."

"Shouldn't be a problem." Gendry agreed effortlessly, storm blue eyes watching Robb as the redhead peered curiously at the orange and red tinted armor hanging from the stands. "You lookin' to buy something to, M'Lord?"

"Hmm? What?" Robb blinked, turning back to consider the King's bastard. "No, I'm not. Or well, I suppose I am in a way. The armor His Grace wants made is for me, but I'm not looking to purchase anything besides that at the moment."

"Fair enough." Gendry allowed, dropping his gaze to the direwolf emblazoned on Robb's chest. "M'Lord Stark?"

"You know your sigils." Robb grinned holding out his hand, which Gendry took with a surprised expression. "Robb Stark. And you?"

"Gendry Waters."

"Well met, Gendry. Have you been working the forge here long?"

"Aye, been apprenticing since I had ten namedays or thereabouts."

Jon kept quiet, letting the boys forget about his presence as they struck up a conversation about the merits of different types of mail. It made him nostalgic to see them slowly get to know each other in the gruff way of boys trying too hard to be men. It was almost like seeing Robert and Ned in their boyhood again, and when Gendry frowned in the exact same way Robert did or Robb quirked an eyebrow in the exact same manner as Ned, that feeling only intensified.

They got on well, Ned's trueborn son and Robert's bastard. Years down the line, when Gendry was finished of his apprenticeship, mayhaps there would be a spot for the smith in Winterfell. And if there wasn't, Jon would make sure there was a place in the Eyrie for Gendry. It was no more than the boy deserved, and would keep him safe from Cersei's jilted rage.

Seven hells, there was something wrong with that woman. Jon had known women to be hateful of their husband's bastards, but only Cersei had a reputation for having them smothered in the crib. It wasn't as if the black-haired get of a whore would cause the next Blackfyre Rebellion. And it wasn't as if Cersei had any affection for Robert either, so her malevolence was queer.

Most odd indeed.


	14. Myrcella IV

Drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Myrcella ducked her head and let her feet carry her into the godswood.

It wasn't the first time she'd slipped past her guards in the night to wander between the elms and alders, looking for a quiet place to simply _be_. There were many places in the Red Keep where Myrcella could hide away in, but none were quite like the godswood.

The acre of forest had been set aside by Aegon to appease his subjects that followed the Old Gods, but in truth the godswood was more like an overgrown pleasure garden. The vines and moss that snaked around the trunks provided a thin veneer of wildness over the otherwise gentle greenery, inviting her further up and further in.

Mrycella stepped around a particularly twisted growth of black cottonwood and tromped right up to the heart tree. There was no great savage face carved into the oak trunk, and once she settled on the grass and leaned against the tree, it felt like she'd fallen into a sacred place between earth and sky.

Stars winked down merrily, and the princess' lips curved upwards in answer. Myrcella had been a girl of four the first time she had seen her father strike her mother, blindly running away with tears in her eyes until she'd found herself tripping over gnarled roots.

Ever since that day the godswood had become her place, a place she didn't even share with Tommen, where she could retreat and try to find her bearings.

Lifting her hand, Myrcella peered up at the sky through the cracks between her fingers. "Why couldn't things have just stayed the same?" she wondered.

Ever since the Starks had come down from the North her parents had fought more often and with increasing ferocity; tonight had been the worst with threats of annulment that made her mother go white with rage.

At least their fights seemed to be over now, since Myrcella knew that there was nothing her mother valued so much as she valued her crown. She'd fight Father for her daughter's sake, but not if it was going to cost her everything else. "So much for promises of no betrothal." Myrcella sighed, flopping down on her back. She couldn't even bring herself to be disappointed.

Mostly, Myrcella was just tired.

Letting her eyelids drift shut, Myrcella relaxed and breathed in the smell of wood and the salty wind blowing in from the Blackwater.

Then a wet tongue slapped against her face.

Emerald eyes flew open, accompanied by a shriek. "Gods!" Myrcella made to bolt to her feet when it finally settled in her mind just exactly what she was looking at.

A hefty furred tail thumped against the ground with a rustle of dried leaves, beating twice as fast as the sniffling sound against her throat Robb Stark's direwolf made. Cold wetness pressed against her skin as the giant wolf butted his nose in deeper, whining like one of her father's hounds looking for a good petting.

Well, why not? The sharp teeth in the wolf's mouth were surely only a snap away from tearing through her throat and murdering her, so as far as Myrcella was concerned she had naught to lose.

More bravely then she felt, the princess placed her slim hand against the side of the direwolf's head and began to scratch behind his left ear. "Seven hells." She marveled when the wolf's tongue lolled out in approval. "You look a fright, but you're just an old softy, aren't you?"

Another warm lick to the cheek was his answer.

Giggling quietly, Myrcella rubbed vigorously at the wolf's flank. She couldn't deny she was still anxious, but as the minutes ticked on without any aggressive moves from the direwolf, she relaxed more and more.

The fur was much softer than she expected. It wasn't a downy coat by any means, but it wasn't the harsh bristles she'd thought it would be either.

"Get off the princess you great lug." Robb Stark sighed as he rounded a bush and caught sight of his companion practically laying on top of Myrcella. "Grey Wind, to me."

Grey Wind gave a sulky whine, rolling onto his back, but refusing to move any further. The sight of the hulking direwolf lazing belly up beside Myrcella made the heir to Winterfell give a rueful chuckle, drawing his attention long enough for Myrcella to climb to her feet and hastily attempt to comb some of the leaves out of her hair.

"Lord Robb." The Princess greeted guardedly, aware she probably looked half a wilding. The slippers and dress she had dressed in to wander about the godswood were an old pair, stained with grass and mud and tattered at the hems. It was an outfit her mother would have thrown out long ago, but Myrcella had hidden them so she would have something to wear on her secret evening excursions.

Considering the princess with an inscrutable blue gaze, Robb let his eyes shift from Myrcella to Grey Wind and back again. "He likes you. Your Grace." Then he grinned, leaving Myrcella feeling like she'd passed some unspoken test.

"Well, um, yes. I suppose." She floundered, looking back down at the wolf when Grey Wind gave off an enormous sneeze. "Is that not usual?"

"No." Robb denied, still meeting Myrcella's emerald eyes with a hooded stare. "It's not." He seemed to struggle inwardly for a long moment before exhaling slowly through his nose, decision made. "Shall I escort you back to the keep, Princess? It's best not to wander at night alone."

Myrcella stared at the northern lordling's proffered arm, not sure if that last comment was meant to simply be a general statement or some kind of point about life in King's Landing itself. In either case, he was not wrong, and refusing would be rude. So with a thick swallow, Myrcella bowed to courtesy and linked her arm through his.

They began a slow walk back through the acre of trees, Grey Wind padding quietly at their heels like the faithful hound he was. "Grey Wind is only one out of a litter." Robb murmured when the tense silence began to seem unbearable to Myrcella. "He's the largest of the six, but each of my brothers and sisters have a direwolf of their own."

It was an innocuous conversation, without any reference to the future they were expected to share, and that lack of expectation had Myrcella letting down her guard. "Are they all so well-tempered?"

Robb grimaced faintly. "In truth, they are not. Not even Grey Wind should be seen as fully tame. They are wolves after all, not typical hounds." The admission surprised Myrcella, given how Grey Wind had behaved as a friendly pup might around her. "Sansa's Lady tolerates strangers with some patience for instance, but Rickon's Shaggydog will bite anyone who isn't part of our family."

The name made a giggle bubble up Myrcella's throat. " _Shaggydog_? Truly?"

"To be fair, Rickon has only seen three name days. A scholar he is not."

"Mayhap you have a point." Myrcella's pink lips curved up into a small smile. "Tommen named his pet kitten Ser Pounce, so I can hardly judge."

"You're a kindly soul then, Princess, to make allowances for their youth." Robb sighed as they stepped out onto the cobblestone pathway leading up to Maegor's Holdfast. "I, on the other hand, feel I would be remiss in my duties as an elder brother if I didn't tease them relentlessly."

Myrcella's sarcastically grave tone made Robb smirk. "Well if it's a _duty_ my good ser _…._ "

"I am no Ser Princess, only an unwashed barbarian from the North here to feast on the skin and bones of naught children." Then contrary to his self-depreciating jape, Robb dropped a perfectly proper kiss to the back of Myrcella's knuckles. "And on that note, tis best I return to the Tower of the Hand, lest people accuse me of taking liberties."

"I can think of no one in the Seven Kingdoms that would dare to impugn the honor of a Stark, my good Ser." Myrcella shot back, half-teasing and half-serious as tried to ignore the flush the idea of 'liberties' put in her cheeks.

Her insistence on the knightly title might perhaps be a private jest of their own in a certain light, and that realization kept Myrcella staring at Robb's back as he walked away.

Reminded of Grey Wind's presence by a final lick to her hand, Myrcella broke her gaze to look down. "Go on you. Your master is waiting."

Grey Wind gave a huff, amber eyes glittering in the torchlight as he obeyed the princess' command and stalked after Robb.


	15. Robb V

The lance Robb took to the chest felt like it knocked his lungs right out of him, throwing him from the back of his horse and leaving the Stark heir groaning in the dirt with his ears ringing. There was no doubt in his mind that his chest would be covered in black and blue splotches by evening.

"Up you get Stark. I still need to knock you on your arse a few more times before you can be considered a real jouster."

Glaring up at the clear blue sky through the slits in his helm, Robb lifted on arm and made a rude gesture, prompting another round of laughter from the Kingslayer. Gods, the man was a trial in patience, swinging back and forth between caustic advice and smarmy japes.

Still, even Jaime Lannister's presence beat another afternoon spent cooped up in the Tower of the Hand with his aunt and lordly cousin. There was something deeply wrong with that boy, what with the way he went on and on slobbering all over Lysa's teats and wailing.

If he had to endure another luncheon listening to Lysa's ramblings about her 'Sweetrobin', Robb thought he might truly go mad. At least if his brain leaked out of his ears while training with the Kingslayer Robb could claim he was doing something productive.

"Hello? You still alive down there?" Jaime prodded impatiently, bending down to yank Robb back upright. "Don't lounge around after getting knocked off your horse, or I'll think there's something wrong with you."

Robb offered a muttered apology, pulling off the dented helm he'd borrowed for the day's training. It was an ugly little thing, all grey and scratched like the rest of the armor he'd been lent, and after a few hours in the sun wearing it his hair was left sweat-soaked and matted.

Gold glinted under the sunlight as Jaime mirrored Robb's action, doffing his gleaming helmet to reveal glittering emerald eyes. "You want to call it a day then, Stark?" he asked, looking a bit disappointed at the younger man's lack of stamina. _There_ was the difference between a green boy and a hardened warrior, he supposed. "Too much to handle in one go?"

Robb stiffened at that, wondering if the man was trying to insult his capability. "I can still ride, Ser.." he denied, whistling to call his errant horse back. He wanted to do nothing beyond lay in his feather bed for a few hours, but Robb wouldn't let the Kingslayer think he was weak.

The Kingsguard knight cocked an eyebrow, studying the student Robert had foisted on him before jerking his chin to the side. "We're done with the joust for the day, Stark. Go drink your fill. Find some leather to wear and a tourney sword. We'll start some melee drills in half a candlemark. There's more to life than the joust."

Watching in confusion as Jaime stalked off, Robb wondered if that was the Kingslayer's attempt at being nice. Neither of them had been exactly eager to follow the King's command, and they'd spent the entire morning hammering away at each other to work out that frustration. At what point did the animosity fade away into some kind of reluctant camaraderie?

Robb shook those thoughts away, hurrying over to the water barrel to take greedy gulps. He didn't have time to waste wondering over the Kingslayer's motives.

Drinking until his thirst was slaked, Robb tore off his gauntlet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Seven hells." He muttered, splashing his sweat covered face with the blessedly cool water. "The heat down here is unbearable."

"That's what you get for having ice in your veins, Stark."

Robb paused, brow wrinkling slightly as he turned. "Lord Renly." He greeted cautiously, eying the man's perfectly tidy blue silk doublet. The heir to Winterfell could smell the faint perfume of roses, and it made him want to sneeze. The Lord of Storm's End was in no way dressed for the tiltyard. "How can I help you?"

Folding his hands behind his back, Renly looked down at the redhaired young man and grinned. "Word on the vine is that you're getting quite cozy with the family, Robb. Robert can't stop singing your praises, Myrcella seems smitten with you, and even the Kingslayer decided to take you under his wing."

"I'm not sure that's how I would describe it, my lord." Robb demurred, shifting on one heel and casting a sidelong glance for Ser Jaime.

It was true that King Robert was kind to him, but Robb wasn't stupid, and the endless stories about life in the Vale only reinforced the fact that the King was interested more in his father than in him. It was also true that Princess Myrcella had stopped treating him like he had the plague, but exchanging courtesies was nowhere near smitten.

As for the Kingslayer, the man only bothered with Robb because of His Grace's command.

"Nothing wrong with a spot of modesty." Renly allowed, storm blue gaze twinkling with a mixture of humor and keen interest. "All of that said, I had a thought to invite you to dine with me and Ser Loras tonight. The Starks and Baratheons have always been friends, and I'd be a poor friend indeed if I didn't look out for you now that Ned's gone."

Robb wasn't sure exactly how to feel about Renly. On the one hand, the man was obviously trying to get something out of him. Favours? An alliance? But on the other hand he did have a point about their houses being tied, and the Lord of Storm's End didn't seem malicious; only flighty. "I'd like that." Robb decided, pulling off his other gauntlet and tucking them both under his arm. "What time should I call on you?"

"Oh, half a candlemark past the supper bell would be perfect."

"Stark! I'm not sacrificing my time so you can dawdle. Go change already!" The sudden cut of the Kingslayer's voice was sharp, and the Lion of Lannister stalked back onto the training grounds with a sour twist of his mouth.

Offering a hurried goodbye, Robb left the two older men alone as he hastened to the armoury. Just as he went to duck into the open door though, he chanced a glance over his shoulder and found his eye caught by the animated conversation Jaime and Renly seemed to be having.

It seemed friendly enough on the surface, with both knight and lord smiling widely as they spoke. But there was a certain tautness to Renly's mouth and a clench to Jaime's jaw that made it seem very cold. Family in a way they might be, but friends they were not.

That realization made Robb's blood chill despite the summer heat, and with a final curse he stepped into the armoury in search of a change of gear. Whatever discord there was between the King's brother and the Kingslayer had naught to do with him, and naught to do with the North.


End file.
